


Temple Visit

by WellTemperedClavier



Series: Daria in Morrowind [2]
Category: Daria (Cartoon), Elder Scrolls III: Morrowind
Genre: Alternate Universe, Crossover, Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-16
Updated: 2019-11-16
Packaged: 2021-01-31 14:36:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 996
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21447817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WellTemperedClavier/pseuds/WellTemperedClavier
Summary: Jane honors the Lane ancestors at the Balmora Temple.
Series: Daria in Morrowind [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1454395
Comments: 3
Kudos: 6





	Temple Visit

**Temple Visit**  
  
Stale air and the spiced smoke of incense burners settled into Jane's clothes and hair as she entered the temple, her head bowed in a show of reverence. Hoarse murmurs echoed down worn adobe corridors lit by braziers and scented candles, shadows of guttering flames dancing on the walls.  
  
She knew the temple well enough. Feast days meant free food offered within its walls and the priests never begrudged her for being an outlander. That day _she_ brought the food, a bundle of marshmerrow. She'd smelled their freshness at the market, her mouth watering at the thought of the sweet and sticky pulp inside the segmented green stalks.  
  
But not for her. Dunmer, outlander and true born alike, always paid homage to their ancestors. Or were supposed to, at any rate. None of the other living Llayns cared at all. Caring just didn't come natural to them. She wasn't an exception, not really. A few marshmerrow stalks didn't represent much of a sacrifice, hungry though she was from skipping breakfast that morning. It had been a while since her last commission...  
  
But the fact remained that it never hurt to have ancestral approval.  
  
She took off her shoes and tread the cold flagstoned floor with bare feet. A mural of St. Veloth leading the Chimer adorned a nearby wall, painted in harsh black strokes. Striking and uncompromising, and for a moment she imagined her distant ancestors among those dusty and aching pilgrims. As they marched so did she, through the lives and deaths of empires, the same blood flowing through their veins.  
  
Jane trembled and made a quick bow before the mural.  
  
She ducked through the doorway to the mausoleum, a low earthen room supported by four square pillars. At the center a great pit of ash, studded with finger bones and gaping skulls.  
  
In death, common craftsmer like the Llayns were committed to the flames and mingled with the ashes of paupers and shopkeepers. Somewhere in that pit lay the bits of her grandparents and those who came before, blended into the weave of Dunmeri history.  
  
She'd be there too, someday.  
  
Only the great Dunmeri families got ancestral tombs. Of course, considering what you had to do to become great——kill someone for your lord or clap some poor Argonian village into chains——Jane figured she could do without. The ash pit was real. Dunmer together, mixed without thought to rank or birthplace.  
  
There had to be a few Dunmeri outlanders in that pit already.  
  
Jane knelt next to edge. Others had left their own offerings to the ancestors on the stones: a clay mazte bottle here, a cluster of comberries there. Her marshmerrow gift was humble but not out of place.  
  
What were the words again? So old and pompous. So _very_ Dunmeri.  
  
"Through ash and storm I call, to those long past who've shared my blood."  
  
Her mind scrambled for the next bit.  
  
"I honor my father."  
  
Her father, who was probably still living it up in the Imperial City, drinking sweet rice wine and watching dragons soar past the sky-high towers to the verdant jungles beyond...  
  
"And I honor his father."  
  
She'd never really known her grandfather. A painter like her, though strictly by the book.  
  
"And all the fathers who came before."  
  
Whom she'd never known, not even by reputation. So maybe they were all horrible people. And why only fathers? Not as if her mother was any better.  
  
Ashamed, she lowered her head. Not right to think of that here. Truth though it might be this was a place where her truth did not matter. And there was a certain relief in that.  
  
"And the ending of the words is ALMSIVI," she uttered.  
  
With that, a stirring in the ash, gray particles trembling like worshippers before a god. Flames shivered and bones shifted as the panorama of ancestral memory flickered before Jane's crimson eyes.  
  
The wrinkled feet of an old woman floated above a blackened skull. Candlelight gleamed through her translucent body, eyes still bright in undeath.  
  
Grandmother!  
  
Jane genuflected on instinct. The ancestors were never that far for the Dunmer. Yet she'd never been sure she'd see one, stained as she was by a foreign birthplace she no longer remembered.  
  
"Come closer, child," her grandmother whispered.  
  
"Yes, grandma," she said. All thoughts of snark vanished. This was a holy moment. Jane got to her feet and took a cautious step toward the ash pit, holding out the marshmerrow she'd brought as a gift, searching for some sign of acceptance on her grandmother's careworn face. Did an ancestor spirit actually eat the offering? She'd always thought the gifts were more symbolic, but come to think of it she'd never asked anyone to find out.  
  
"Closer."  
  
"Yes."  
  
Her heart pounded. Through all the death and suffering of Dunmer past and present, she was of them. Linked by bone and spirit, across foreign lands to the distant past. She should've brought something better than marshmerrow! If _only_ she'd known...  
  
"Closer."  
  
Again she obeyed. Now she stood at the very edge.  
  
"Yes?" Her body tensed in expectation.  
  
The old face suddenly contorted in rage.  
  
"What the hell is wrong with you, outlander!?" her grandma's spirit bellowed.  
  
*********  
  
Jane had tried.  
  
She lay on her threadbare cot back in her cluttered apartment, luxuriating in the familiar smells of paints and oils. Ritual and obedience kept the ancestors happy, or so they said. Unhappy ancestors had a way of creating an unhappy present.  
  
But it wasn't like there was much she could do if the ancestors were _already_ unhappy.  
  
Jane reached into the bundle she'd taken with her to the temple and withdrew a marshmerrow stalk. She decided to save a few for tomorrow. Daria might enjoy trying it. Jane tore into the stalk with her teeth and the fruity insides spilled onto her tongue. She savored the pulp for a few long moments.  
  
Annoying her ancestors actually made it taste _better_.  
  
**The End**  
  



End file.
